Vinyl

The record skips. You’re nine again. Your brother is twisting your arm behind your back and the pain feels so close but still so distant, as though it’s happening to someone else. He calls you a little shit for snitching. Then you’re on the ground and the too-familiar taste of your own blood fills your mouth like molten copper.

And the record skips. You’re down. You’re down and he’s on top of you and the cuts in your face from his ring are pouring blood. You can’t see through the blood, and you can’t feel his fists anymore, but you feel the way the bones in your head are sliding together and you know it’s almost done. You hear the tail end of your favorite saxophone solo as he shrieks and slams you against the cabinet, and the record skips, and skips, and skips.